Memories
by lionesseyes13
Summary: When Voldemort meets his end, Slughorn reflects on the boy he had once known.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I know nothing you recognize from the works of J.K. Rowling. Don't sue a poor college student.

Reviews: Are one of my favorite things, so please be generous.

Prologue

I know what you'll say. You'll say that I'm an overly emotional, foolish man to be crying alone in my office the day after the most powerful Dark wizard in British history was killed by Harry Potter. You'll say that I should have been celebrating You-Know-Who's downfall along with everyone else, or else taking advantage of the opporunity to reconnect with Harry Potter to ensure that the great hero would always remember the Potions master who was so kind and helpful to him during his sixth year and want to repay the man. Of course, I don't blame you for saying that. After all, it's what I would have said to anyone else, and maybe it's what I should be doing.

Perhaps, instead of thinking about the painful past, I should look ahead toward the bright future. Maybe I shouldn't let the memories of the dead chain me down, especially not the memories of one particular boy who died. If any of the others who faught in that final battle against You-Know-Who knew whom I was mourning, they would never attend another one of my parties or send me any more treats to sustain me in my old age. In fact, they would probably deny ever having any sort of relationship with me.

Still, I can't stop the tears from pooling in my eyes, and, no matter how much I blink and swipe at the moisture angrily, the tears stubbornly insist on flowing down my cheeks in salty rivulets. I know that I shouldn't be grieving for You-Know-Who, and I am not. No, I'm crying for Tom Riddle, and that's not at all the same thing.

I hated You-Know-Who for killing so many of my favorite students like Lily Evans, but I adored Tom Riddle, and, even knowing what he became I confess that freely to myself now. You-Know-Who was one of the most evil beings in history, but Tom Riddle had radiated an aura of goodness wherever he went. You-Know-Who had been colder than metal on a winter day, but Tom Riddle had been charming. You-Know-Who had been uglier than his snake, but Tom Riddle had resembled what Muggles might have called a Byronic hero.

Oh, I am well aware that by admitting all this I appear as though I have dung for brains, but anyone who judges me so harshly must never have met Tom Riddle, and, therefore, would have no right to pass judgment on me. Anybody would have been charmed by Tom. Who could resist a boy who was clever, driven, witty, and handsome? Who could not be won over by his blazing eyes or his quick, white smile? Only someone with a heart of granite, I tell you, and, whatever my flaws, I don't have that.

Over fifty years ago, I had fallen under Tom Riddle's spell, and, even now, no matter how much I struggled to break free of it in the past, I was still under its power. Worse still, I no longer wanted to be liberated from it, because, now that You-Know-Who had been defeated it could do no harm. Now, I could think about the boy whom I had nourished and lavished attention upon, who had ultimately betrayed my confidence by becoming a Dark wizard who terrorized the nation. The idea of his betrayal of me and of himself should have made me furious at him, but I couldn't be cross at a dead man, not even one who had killed Lily Evans. Instead, all I saw when I remembered how You-Know-Who's scarlet eyes had smoldered with wrath and hatred was the eyes of the good-looking boy I had once taught Potions, his brown eyes filled with eagerness and promise.

That was enough to cut me to the core, and to make me bemoan once again the fates that allowed me to outlive so many of the best, brightest students that I had ever had and that I had come to regard as my own children. Worse still, I couldn't even feel bad about mourning Tom Riddle in much the same way that I had grieved for a person as pure as Lily Evans. After all, I told myself Lily had dozens of people to cry for her and sing her praises when she had perished, and, she certainly had warrented every kind word they said about her and then some. However, Tom Riddle would have nobody to mourn for him if I didn't, and, call me silly, but I think that it is only fair that someone pause to remember what he was like before he was swallowed up by his own dark side.

The only problem, of course, is that if I share these memories with you, you will notice all the little flaws in him, and hold them up as proof that he was always evil incaranate. You will point out the little things wrong in his behavior, and make them out to be bigger than they were. Hindsight will make you look for all the clues of the Dark wizard that he would become in but a few years time. When you look back, you will forget that nobody is born evil and that the future isn't fixed, but fluid. You will forget that it was a series of choices so small that they seemed unnoticable to anyone on the outside and perhaps even to Tom himself that made Tom become You-Know-Who.

My challenge to you then is to just listen to me and my memories of Tom. Don't judge him and don't judge me. Just listen, and see Tom as he once was before he tore his soul apart. See how the darkness and light battled for supremacy in him, and think about how they do the same in you. Think about what he might have become if he had not surrendered to the dark. Think about what the Wizarding World lost when he chose to devote himself not to good but to evil, and mourn for that. Grieve for everything we lost when we let Tom Riddle go astray so many years ago, and only then can you take steps to ensure that you will never deal with another Lord Voldemort.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Travel back in time with me to the September afternoon when I first noticed Tom Riddle. It was the first day of double Potions for the Hufflepuff and Slytherin first years, and, as was my custom to ensure maximum drama, I entered the classroom after all the pupils had assembled around the lab tables on which I had placed steaming cauldrons of the potions they would learn to create this year that I would ask them to identify in this lesson.

Shutting the dungeon door behind me, I strode to the front of the room and pivoted to regard my silent, scared students with a broad smile. Then, I greeted them, "Hello, boys and girls. My name is Professor Slughorn, and I will be your Potions master. I am not adverse to being your advisor throughout the course of your years here should you wish to cultivate my acquintance outside the classroom. I assure you, I am not a killjoy, even if I am old enough not to want to tell you my age."

Here, I chortled at my own jest. Nobody chuckled along with me, but that wasn't surprising, since first years were always shy about enjoying a joke at an instructor's expense. Although no one laughed, a few people offered tentative grins, as though they were afraid to act truly amused but also didn't want to end up on my bad side so early in the term.

"Now," I continued, my manner becoming more brisk as I got down to business. "We'll start out today's lesson by taking a look at some basic potions that you ought to be able to not only recognize but concoct by the end of our year together." At this point, I paced over to a table at which four Slytherin boys were clustered, snatched up a wooden ladle, scooped up a bit of the Babbling Beverage boiling before them, held it aloft so that the entire class could see it, and then poured it back into the cauldron. After I had shown everyone the contents of the cauldron, I demanded, "Which of you can identify this potion for me?"

Instantly, the hand of the tall, dark-haired boy across the table shot into the air.

"Yes?" I nodded at him, making a mental note of this student's enthusiasm.

The lad swallowed down the nervousness that seemed to brew in his throat when my eyes and the eyes of everybody in the class fixated on him. Then, he answered in a quiet yet distinct voice, "It's a Babbling Beverage, Professor, which prompts the drinker to talk nonsense until the effects wear off in about an hour, hence its name."

"Exactly right," I declared, stepping over to the next table and holding up a foamy, pearly white potion for the class to examine. "Who can tell me what this one is?"

Again, the dark-haired boy's hand whipped through the air before anyone else's.

"Yes?" Somewhat taken aback, I pointed at the lad again.

"It's a Calming Draught, sir," he told me.

"Quite right," I agreed, beaming and deciding that I would be keeping my eye on him. As I approached the third table and displayed a silvery syrup, I asked, "Which one of you can tell me what this potion is?"

Again, the black-haired boy's hand was the first to soar into the air, and he responded in a tone that was a tad louder than it had been the previous two times he had spoken up, "It's a Hair-Raising potion, and rats' tails are responsible for the silver color."

"Excellent, excellent," I approved, watching as the boy's pale cheeks flushed, and a small smile broke acorss his face. Realizing that I should know the name of the child with such impressive banks of knowledge, I added, "May I ask what your name is, my boy?"

"Tom Riddle, Professor." The flames on his cheeks gained more heat, and I surmised that it was because his surname made it clear that he was a rare non-pureblood in Slytherin.

"Of course you are." I chuckled, remembering that many of my fellow staff members had been commenting on how bright the Riddle boy was. Well, obviously, they hadn't been exaggerating, although now that I thought about it, I remembered that the staff had also remarked on Tom's status as an orphan raised by Muggles. As I realized that the smart boy before me was an orphan, I felt the customary twinge of pity that any decent being would experience in such a situation.

Then, it occured to me that the lad must be extremely talented if this was how far he had progressed while living among Muggles. Yes, not only would he be a powerful connection to have a decade or so down the road, but he would be an easy person to earn the gratitude of, since all I would have to do would be to show him the affection and the attention denied him when he was raised in an orphanage.

Now, if you have been paying proper attention to my tale, you might point out that I said earlier that I loved Tom like a son, but what I described just now seems to contradict that. Such a criticism is fair. I won't pretend that I was selfless and noble when I started treating Tom indulgently. However, I will argue that as I spent more time with the boy, I came to love him. Perhaps there was still something self-serving about it, and maybe Tom deserved better, but it was genuine and until you devote yourself to guaranteeing that every orphan knows the benefit of unconditional love, don't condemn me. After all, the brand of love I offered Tom was better than no love at all.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though, as is wont to happen to a tired man of my years. Tom Riddle and I had just met, and I was only just about to say the words that would form the foundation of our fateful relationship: "Fifteen points to Slytherin, Tom, and be sure to see me after class. I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

"Will do, sir." Tom nodded, looking anxious, and when the bell rang, ending the lesson, he packed up his battered books and slung his stachel over his shoulder. As everyone else jostled out of the room, he stepped hestitantly up to my desk, his fingers toying with the frayed cuffs of his robes, and reminded me, "You wished to see me, Professor."

"I did, indeed," I agreed, clapping him gently on the shoulder. For a second, he stiffened as though unaccustomed to being touched, and then his muscles uncoiled. "There's no need to look so fretful, dear boy. You aren't in trouble. I just want to speak to you."

"Oh." Tom grinned in relief. "What would you like to talk about, then, sir?"

"I understand that you are an orphan," I said as delicately as I could.

"Yes, sir," admitted Tom, biting his lip.

"I know that it's tough enough for children with parents to adapt to life at school," I commented. "How are you faring?"

"I'm doing well enough," Tom answered, shrugging. "All of my professors seem satisfied with my performance."

"I'd be hard pressed to see why they wouldn't be," I informed him jovially. "So far, your Potions work has been most impressive. I just want you to know that, even though you are an orphan and this castle can sometimes feel frightening, you are not alone here. I will be in my office if you ever need to talk to someone, and I have plenty of wonderful books that can't be found in the library that I would be happy to lend you."

"Thank you, sir." Tom's eye shone. "I'll be sure to stop by your office, then."

"There is no need to thank me." I waved a dismissive hand. "It is my duty as a professor to provide you with the tools you require to learn, and it's my responsibility as your Head of House to offer you guidance. There is no cause to thank someone for fulfilling their obligations."

"Oh, but there is, sir, when so many people don't do their duty," pointed out Tom.

"Well, there is still no need to thank me when you make doing my duty a pleasure," I blustered, although I had to admit that I was charmed.

"You make learning a pleasure, Professor," he countered, grinning.

I issued a hearty laugh. "Tom, you are quite the master of flattery for one so young."

"It's not flattery if it's true, sir." As he established as much, Tom's smile widened.

"Off to dinner with you before your silver tongue make my head too big for my neck to support," I ordered, wagging a mock-scolding finger at him.

"Yes, sir." Obediently, he turned on his heel and departed, leaving me delighted at establishing a rapport with such a promising young man.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

The next important moment I remember with Tom was on the day after Easter during his second year. I was busy munching on the sweets that various former students had sent me for Easter when a knock sounded on my office door. "Come in," I called, as I unwrapped some crystallized pineapple, and, glancing up, I saw Tom Riddle enter.

"Shouldn't you be studying, my boy?" I asked, waggling a finger at him with mock severity while he settled himself upon the hardest seat of the cluster of chairs that I had around my desk. He always placed himself in that chair, I had noticed, as though he did not want anyone to think he was soft. "Term starts again tomorrow, you know."

"I know." Tom nodded. "Don't worry about me, Professor--I finished my homework before Easter."

"Of course you did," I chuckled. "I shouldn't have expected anything less from a responsible young wizard such as yourself."

Grinning at the praise, Tom ducked his head modestly. Then, he reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a box of chocolates. As he shot them across the desk at me, he said, "Speaking of Easter, sir, these are for you."

"Thank you, Tom," I answered, opening the box and popping a chocolate into my mouth. The instant I did so, my tastebuds exploded with the sweetness of caramel tucked into creamy milk chocolate. Death by chocolate was right--one bite alone was probably enough to clog the arteries. "These are excellent--truly delicious."

"Glad you like them." Tom smiled.

"But," I went on, remembering this brilliant pupil's unfortunate financial background, "this candy must have been expensive. Are you sure that you shouldn't spend your money on other things?"

"No, I'm quite certain that I want you to have that as an Easter present and as a demonstration of my gratitude for inviting me to your Easter party yesterday," replied Tom. As I waved off his thanks, he added, "Besides, I was able to convince Avery to give me them at a very good price. Many of the children from wealthy pureblood families are easy to out bargain because they do not understand money very well, nor do they fully comprehend the value of things."

"Tom, Tom, you know it's not nice to take advantage of those less clever than yourself," I admonished, although I was beaming at the cunning of the lad who was rapidly becoming Slytherin's star. Oh, yes, with a mind molded like his, Tom would be a great success in politics or business. After all, it was an accurate assessment that criminal behavior was really only a logical extension of the sort of actions that are often considered not only appropriate but desirable in government and commerce.

"True, Professor." Tom didn't look remotely abashed by my token scolding, because he knew as well as I did that I was pleased, not disappointed or angry. He knew as well as I did that I could never be stern with him. At the time, even though I was his Head of House, that didn't strike me as a problem, because a boy as respectful and reliable as he was did not seem like the kind of child who would require discipline, and, after hearing the horror stories of what life was like at Muggle orphanages from the Muggle Studies Professor, the last thing I thought Tom would need after growing up in one was a strong hand to keep him in line. If anything, I thought he needed my indulgence. Of course, now, I know better. Now, I know that Tom required someone to give him a proper reprimand when he showed his more misanthropic tendencies, but don't judge me too hard for not being able to be as severe as I should have been with him. After all, none of the other members of the staff except Dumbledore ever really reproved Tom, and Dumbledore alone appeared to detect the hints of darkness in Tom. You can blame me for not noticing the darkness in Tom and stamping it out with sternness, but you can blame Dumbledore for seeing it and doing nothing but waiting for Tom to make his next mistake and then judging him for it, instead of persuading Tom not engage in such behavior. "I suppose that fools can't help being fools any more than monsters can help being monsters."

Before I could respond, he muttered, "I also suppose it was rather unrefined of me to mention my bargain at all. Well, I guess you can polish pewter all you want, but you will never end up with gold."

"You are many things, my boy, but common pewter is not among them," I told him. "Really, you are much closer to gold. Don't think that you are common just because you were reared in a Muggle orphanage. Ancestry isn't everything, after all."

"No, I suppose it isn't, Professor." Tom offered a noncommittal shrug."Besides, I think I'm a halfblood, not a Muggleborn."

"Indeed?" I arched my eyebrow at him, encouraging him to continue. It was probably comforting for an orphan to talk about his parentage, and, besides, it was highly possible, given his abilities, that he was correct. While I didn't consider myself a pureblood supremacist, I also was of the opinion that magical talent, like intelligence and insanity, ran in certain families.

"I think that my father might have been a wizard." His eyes faraway as though he were lost in thought, Tom tapped his long fingers against the arms of his chair. "His name was Tom Riddle, too, but I haven't found a reference to him yet in any of the Wizarding genealogies in the library. Still, I'm only halfway done, so the name probably just hasn't cropped up yet..."

"Doubtlessly, that's the case," I said gently. Privately, I doubted that was the case. Riddle wasn't a Wizarding name, and I had neither taught nor studied with any Riddle in my years at the school, and, given Tom's age, his father would have had to either been my schoolmate or my student. As delicately as I could, aware that family was probably a sensitive topic for an orphan and that it was an honor for Tom to even discuss his parentage with me, I inquired, "May I ask who told you that your father was a wizard?"

"Nobody, sir, and since he abandoned my mother before I was born, it's hard to find out," admitted Tom, chewing on his lower lip. "It's just a hypothesis of mine. When Professor Dumbledore first explained to me that I was a wizard, I figured that I had to get my magic from somebody, and, not knowing at the time that magic can be passed through generations of Muggles without showing itself until one person demonstrates the talent, I assumed that my gift had to come from one of my parents. Then, when I was Sorted into Slytherin, I figured that I must be right, since there are plenty of purebloods in Slytherin and a handful of halfbloods, but no Muggleborns."

"Hmm. Your hunches tend to be accurate, Tom, but even the most rational person can make mistakes when emotions are involved." I gnawed meditatively on a piece of crystallized pineapple. "Have you considered the possibility that your mother might have been a witch?"

"No, sir." Tom shook his head, heat rising in his face and making his pale cheeks resemble autumn apples. "She--she died giving birth to me, you see, and I thought she must have been too weak to be a witch. Surely, her magic would have been able to save her if she was a witch."

"Perhaps," I allowed, "but pregnancy is a grueling ordeal for women, and your mother might have been so weakened from carrying you for nine months that she didn't have enough energy to use her magic to save herself when she was giving birth to you. Maybe it required all of her strength to stay alive long enough to deliver you, something that we are all grateful to her for doing."

"Maybe," agreed Tom. However, his tone was hollow, as if he didn't really set much in store by that theory.

"For all you know, my boy, she might have given her last breath giving you the greatest present of all--life," I went on, waggling my slice of pineapple at him to emphasize my point. "Don't scorn her for that."

"Oh, I don't scorn her," Tom said too quickly, his eyes on the ground, and I knew that he was lying. "It's just hard not to resent someone for dying and leaving you alone in an orphanage where you are doomed to be the freakish pariah of all pariahs, sir."

"Tom, you were only an outcast among the Muggles because they feared your magic, you know that." I sighed, thinking that I was not really qualified to help this charming young man deal with the shadows that the orphanage had obviously left upon his heart.

"I know that, yes, Professor." Now, there was no trace of a lie in his voice, and I relaxed.

"Good, and you shouldn't neglect your mother's side of the family," I added. "It's entirely possible that if you hunted around in the library, you might learn something about her lineage."

"I suppose that's possible." Tom's fingers drummed swiftly upon the arms of his chair, as though they were valiantly struggling to keep up with the acrobatic flips of his agile mind. "I do know that her father's name was Marvolo--my middle name. If my search for my father turns up empty, I'll be sure to investigate her heritage properly..."

He trailed off for a moment, and then remarked, changing the subject briskly, "Anyway, I'm sorry, Professor, because I didn't come here to bore you with my sordid family affairs. I came here to give you the chocolates and to seek your advice on something if I might."

"Of course you might," I reassured him, popping another one of the chocolate caramel candies he had given me into my mouth and discovering that its flavor rather clashed with the pineapple I had recently swallowed. "What would you like help with?"

"As you are doubtlessly aware, second years are supposed to sign up for third year classes over break."

"Yes, I do know that, since I have been teaching at this school since before you were born," I commented, beaming. "Oho, so you've come to ask me what classes you should take in the future, and you wanted to sweeten me up with some chocolate beforehand. "

"Sir, the chocolates are nothing more than an Easter gift and a thank you for inviting me to yesterday's get-to-together," he insisted, returning my smile.

"Well, it matters not what they are. After all, it is my job as the Head of Slytherin to advise all the students in my House on their classes and future careers, and so giving me presents isn't necessary," I said, although I think we both knew that it was a lie. The truth was that while it was my duty to provide all the Slytherins with the appropriate level of guidance throughout their years here, I tended to only focus my attention on those pupils I deemed worthy of my attention. Still, the fact remained that I would have given Tom the advice he required without a gift. After all, not only was I fond of the boy, but I sensed that he would get ahead in the world, and pay me back tenfold at least.

Tom was smart enough to recognize that I would have helped him without the present, I suspect, and so I think that the box of chocolates that he gave me was a purer gift than many would like to believe. Many people might like to see it as nothing more than a calculated bribe, but it can't have been if Tom was clever enough to determine that a bribe wasn't necessary, and even those who think the worst of him could never call him a fool. No, I think that the gift he offered me that day was a genuine display of affection for his favorite professor.

Whatever anyone says on the contrary, I am convinced that then he was doing something that wasn't meant to enhance his power. Later, he would be different--consumed entirely by his thirst for power. Later, he would think power would make him whole, but it never would. No matter what magic he worked on himself or others, Tom Riddle would never overcome his past. Even when all of Britain refused to whisper the new, dreadful name he had forged for himself, he would still be a lonely, misunderstood orphan boy whose mother had died giving birth to him and whose father had abandoned him before he left the womb.

Looking at him in this light, it is hard to blame him for the atrocities he committed in later years when he renounced his old identity, and it is hard not to feel sorry for him, especially when I realize that for all the love all of us professors claimed to have harbored for him, none of us worked the true transformation of making his broken heart whole again.. Maybe on that day when he gave me those chocolates he was hoping that I would pour more than advice into him. Perhaps he was hoping that I would somehow be able to make him whole. Maybe, when I didn't, he had given up on me, and, instead, devoted himself to building his magic and ultimately eradicating love wherever he could, because, after all, why should less clever people be permitted to enjoy what he wasn't?

I don't know, and I shall never know. That is my curse, since I shall never be able to speak to Tom again, and so I can only reflect on how that day in my study, I went on merrily, "Well, my boy, you've certainly come to the right place for advice. Tell me, what classes are you thinking of enrolling in?"

"I would like to enroll in them all, Professor," he informed me with that hunger for knowledge that often flooded his tone. "I should like to learn everything I can about every branch of magic. I should like to try to earn twelve O.W.L's, and twelve N.E.W.T's , too, if I can make it."

"It's been done before, and I don't think that should be impossible for you."

"You don't think that the work load would be too much for me to cope with, then, sir?" A weight seemed to fall off Tom's shoulders as he posed this question.

"Of course not." I shook my head at the absurdity of this question. "You finish your work at least three times faster than your peers. You'd probably have too much time on your hands if you didn't take all the classes that you could."

"You are very kind, Professor." Tom blushed and ducked his head humbly. Then, looking up again, he observed, "Forgive me if I sound obtuse, but there isn't enough time in a day to attend all those classes, so some sort of time traveling device like a Time Turner would be a necessity unless I am very much mistaken."

"Oho, you are even cleverer than I thought, Tom." I laughed uproariously, delighted at how quickly his mind worked. "Yes, a Time Turner would have to be lent to you by the Ministry of Magic for the sole purpose of attending your lessons if you enrolled in all the available classes, but Professor Dippet and I would take care of procuring it for you, so you needn't worry about that."

"Then, I think I will sign up for all the classes." Tom gave a decisive nod. "Thanks for your help, Professor."

"It was nothing." I waved a hand to show this and munched on another slice of pineapple. Thinking of the earlier part of our conversation, I added, "Tom,going back and trying to change a major event like a death would be very dangerous."

"I know, sir, and it would be pointless, too, since no magic can return the dead to life," Tom said flatly, rising and walking toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he spun around. "Good day, Professor."

"Good day, Tom," I responded, watching the door shut behind him, and not thinking to question how a second-year knew so much about the magic surrounding death.

Doubtlessly, you will read into this a sinister interest in death, and this scene certainly foreshadowed that, but at the time, if I had thought about it at all, I would have just believed it revealed his desire to better understand his mother's end, which would have been common and understandable in any orphan.

No, I think that if there were any real signs of the monster that Tom Riddle would one day allow himself to become, they were his independence and his refusal to sympathize with anyone weaker than himself, since if he had to survive by his wits and his will when he was no more than a child, why should others get special treatment just because they lacked his strength?

I also think that if I had any flaw then it was in allowing Tom to go away still believing that, but how could I have corrected him when I myself was guilty of favoring the strong students and ignoring the struggling ones? 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

It was well past curfew on a crisp November night, and I was returning from a meeting with Professor Dippet in his study when I heard shouting coming from inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Wondering what nonsense students were getting up to in the evening now and noting inwardly that the prefects really needed to do a better job patrolling, I flung open the door to the classroom.

I expected to see any number of miscreants up to any number of illicit activities. However, I didn't anticipate seeing Tom Riddle, his handsome face so pale that it looked almost bleached and his dark eyes moister than I had ever witnessed them, waving his wand in a frantic manner that lacked his customary grace at a boggart that had taken the shape of Tom's corpse. As he flourished his wand about wildly, Tom screamed, "Riddikulous!"

Responding reflexively to seeing a pupil, particularly this one, in such distress, I lurched forward. Instantly, the boggart transformed into my worst fear—myself, alone, friendless, and penniless. "Riddikulous," I said firmly, and the boggart turned into a fat circus clown before disappearing entirely.

"Sir, you didn't have to do that," remarked Tom stiffly once the boggart had vanished.

"Don't be foolish, my boy," I responded, tucking my wand back in my pocket. There were times when I wished that Tom was more willing to accept help, and this was one of them. "You may be out after curfew, but that doesn't mean I should leave you to fight off a boggart by yourself. I would be remiss in my duties as a teacher if I permitted that."

"I was fine, Professor, I assure you," insisted Tom.

"You shouldn't go around telling lies to your instructors, Tom, especially not lies as blatant as that one," I admonished, waggling my finger at him, as I often did when I wanted to convey to my students that I was serious, but still understood their adolescent mischief. "I have seen white sheets with more color than you had in your face a moment ago. If fine were a synonym for looking as if you are seconds away from fainting, then, yes you would have been fine. Since fine isn't a synonym for that, though, you most definitely weren't fine, young man, and it really would be best if you stop claiming that you were."

"Perhaps I wasn't fine, sir," Tom conceded after a few seconds' hesitation, " but that was the whole point. I need to learn how to fend off the boggart for myself."

"You mean to tell me that you came up here in the middle of the night to learn how to defend yourself against a boggart?" I demanded, wondering how the smartest pupil in the year and the brightest boy I had ever encountered could be so thick in this matter.

"Yes, sir." Tom nodded calmly, as though he still didn't appreciate the folly of his actions. "I had difficulty mastering the spell in class yesterday, and I don't tolerate failure. I need to master the spell immediately."

Realizing that Tom must have been troubled by finally hitting a spell that he could not perform correctly at once, I commented gently, "You know that at least half the third years aren't able to successfully banish a boggart during their first lesson. Having trouble is perfectly normal, and is nothing to worry about."

"Professor, I can't be in the bottom half of the class." Tom shook his head, and for a minute, I thought I saw fear of being ordinary flicker across his expression before his face smoothed out again. For possibly the hundredth time, I cursed the orphanage Tom had been reared in for instilling in him this terrible fear of being a failure even when he was the best in his year, and this awful conviction that being ordinary was nothing more than being inadequate. Ambition was all very well, but a person who had to derive all their satisfaction from achievements could never be happy for fear of losing their achievements, and it seemed unfair that a lad as clever and charming as Tom Riddle should be held hostage to the ambition and fear of failure that the orphanage had created in him.

"You aren't in the bottom half of your class. How you perform on one spell doesn't matter that much," I informed him, walking toward the door and gesturing for him to accompany me. "Now, let's get you back to your dormitory. You need to be well-rested for tomorrow's lessons."

"Yes, sir." Obediently, Tom followed me out into the corridor and toward the stairs that would lead down toward the dungeons. As we went along, he pressed, "How did you banish the boggart, Professor?"

"I just said the incantation that you already know and turned the sight of my worst fear into something amusing," I answered.

"How does one go about making death funny?" asked Tom gloomily, as we made our way down the staircase.

"I can't tell you that." Filled with pity for this teenager who had to be so terrified of death thanks to his mother's death when his peers could sail through their school years with the conviction that they were immortal and that death happened to other people, I rested a hand on his shoulder. "That's an answer that you must find for yourself in the fullness of time. For now, don't be ashamed. Fear of death is something much harder to conquer than fear of termites and other things so common with young witches and wizards."

"It is indeed, sir," Tom agreed, and he was silent until we reached the dungeon corridor that contained the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

Then, he burst into hysterical laughter. "I've found a way to make death amusing," he explained through gales of mirth, spotting my bewildered face. "You see, Professor, the very idea that death would happen to me…the very idea that I would be weak enough to allow it to destroy me…That amuses me greatly."

"Well, don't wake your fellow Slytherins with your laughter, Tom," I ordered, hoping to soothe this poor, brilliant student who had been so traumatized by the sight of his own corpse. "Also, don't let me catch you out after hours again, or I'll put you in detention."

"I won't go wondering about the school at night any more, I promise, Professor," Tom reassured me earnestly, halting outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room. "Thank you for your help in dealing with the boggart, and for teaching me how to defeat them."

"I already told you that helping get rid of the boggart was nothing, and I'm sure I told you nothing about vanquishing boggarts that Professor Merrythought didn't," I replied. Thinking that he might still be troubled from his encounter with the boggart, I added, "Perhaps I should take you to my office for a Cheering Draft before you go to sleep."

"You are too kind, sir," smiled Tom, and I was convinced by the sight of his sparkling teeth that he really was perfectly composed now. "That won't be necessary, though. I'm really fine now."

"Good." I clapped him on the shoulder again as he disappeared into the common room. "Make sure that you stay that way now, my boy."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in posting, everyone. I have been busy with volunteer work at a senior citizen center, and I have just lacked inspiration for this chapter for awhile. Anyway, hopefully, you'll enjoy this chapter.

Cruel to be Kind

It was two days after Christmas, and I had invited fourteen-year-old Tom Riddle, who was practically the only Slytherin left at Hogwarts over break, to my office after supper for some butterbear. Although I had invited Tom to the Christmas party I had hosted before break, where he had thrust a box of crystallized pineapple upon me, I still felt as if I hadn't done enough to ensure that this charming young man wasn't lonely over the holidays.

"How has your vacation been so far, my boy?" I asked, as I settled myself comfortably in my chair and gestured for him to seat himself on one of the many chairs opposite my desk.

"It's been fine, thank you, sir," Tom replied, seating himself and accepting the bottle of butterbeer I offered him with a grateful nod. "Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are so much more spectacular here than they ever were at—at the place I grew up. In the place I grew up, there wasn't enough money to spare on special foods, presents, or decorations."

Sipping wildly at my butterbeer in the hope that it would warm my chest enough to keep at bay images of the cold place Tom must have been reared in, I remarked, "I pray you aren't lonely here."

"Oh, I could never be lonely at Hogwarts, Professor," Tom assured me, sounding scandalized as though the very notion were blasphemy.

"All your friends have gone home for break," I pointed out gently. "It would only be natural if you were lonesome."

"I'm not lonely," repeated Tom firmly, shaking his head. "I've always believed that a clever person will never be lonely, since he's got his thoughts to occupy him at all times. Besides, I could never be lonely here, not when it's filled with books for me to read and secrets for me to uncover. Hogwarts is the only home that I've ever known, as pathetic as that sounds, and I never want to leave it."

"Tom, Tom, you're being a bit hasty," I chided, waggling a finger at him.

"Hasty?" Tom frowned, as he swallowed his butterbeer, acting as though he had never heard the adjective before in his life. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean, sir."

"Then, as your professor and Head of House, I shall explain my meaning to you," I responded. "After the—the unpleasant childhood you were unfortunate enough to have, my boy, I understand how you would feel a sentimental attachment to this castle as the first place you were ever cared for as you should have been. However, I think that it would be wrong for you to remain here after you graduate. You are the top student in your year, and you have the sort of personality that draws people to you. You belong in the Ministry, not hiding away in a school. Remember, every bird has to fly from its nest eventually, and every boy must leave his home behind."

"With all due respect, Professor, I don't wish to go into government right now," answered Tom, his dark eyes glinting in a manner that I couldn't fathom at the time, but later thought was his promise that he would be going into government of his own sort later on. "I'd rather remain on here as a teacher."

"That would be a waste of your talents, Tom," I protested, distressed that my most talented pupil was refusing to travel the path that I had selected for him the first time I met him in Potions class. As far as I was concerned, Tom would be Minister of Magic even if I had to twist both his arms to convince him to do so. "You are not a Ravenclaw meant to languish in some ivory tower. In case you have forgotten, you are a Slytherin meant to achieve greatness. Passing along your knowledge to the next generation is very noble, but Slytherins are ambitious, not noble. A Slytherin never misses an opportunity to advance himself. A Slytherin with your brains and charisma belongs in the Ministry, where he can rise through the ranks quickly. Learning is all very well, but it is no good for you if you never employ it."

During the course of my speech, my voice had elevated, and, with a jolt, I recognized that I was really shouting at one of my favorite students ever. Guilt flared in me as it occurred to me that I was ripping into a boy who was scarred from his childhood in a filthy Muggle orphanage.

My feeling that I was a monster only increased when Tom, biting his lip, commented, "Sir, I don't want to be the center of attention. I'd prefer to remain here in the shadows where I'm comfortable if it's all the same to you."

"It's not all the same to me. You were born to be the center of attention, whether you like it or not," I educated him, shaking a finger again and squashing my remorse by reasoning that I was only being cruel to be kind. "No matter how much you might like to be part of the background, you were meant to take center stage. By all means, tell everyone that you hate the spotlight, but when they offer it to you, as they inevitably will since people love modesty, jump into it."

"Yes, sir." Tom nodded, absorbing my lesson like a cloth sopping up water as he always did. Nothing one ever said to him was lost or forgotten, even if, years later, you found yourself wishing that his memory was abysmal, just as you longed for your memory to be atrocious. Blinking rapidly, he added, "Professor, I didn't intend to upset you."

"Nor did I wish to upset you." Lapsing into my usual jovial, beaming self, I opened a box of crystallized pineapple, munched on a slice, and then waved it at him. "It's just my duty to protect you from yourself. It is my job to ensure that you do not make impulsive decisions now that you will regret twenty years from now. It is my responsibility to push you to be the best that you can be. Believe it or not, all I want is what's best for you."

Even as I said those words, I knew that they were false. Despite the fact that I harbored a genuine affection for the young man, my primary concern wasn't him—it was me. The truth was that I wished to be well-connected to a powerful Ministry official like Tom should become, and I did not care if I was dragging the boy into a spotlight he didn't want to be in. In short, even though I suspected that Tom ultimately would find fulfillment in the Ministry, it was my best interests that I was looking after, not his.

"Oh, I know, Professor," declared Tom swiftly. "I just wanted to be a teacher like you, and influence tomorrow's children. I didn't plan on making you cross with me."

"I'm flattered that you want to be like me, and I could never really be cross with you, my boy. You know that." I glowed, even though a part of me knew that Tom deserved a less selfish role model and an advisor that was completely concerned with his welfare.

"Of course I want to be like you, sir," stated Tom, finishing his butterbeer. "You are the only father I have ever really known at all."

"I'm not sure I deserve such an honor," I stuttered. Oh, and, at the time, I thought it was an honor. At the time, I was delighted that such a clever and polite boy perceived me as a father. At the time, it flattered me that he wanted to be a teacher just like me. Only years later would I realize how much of a curse his words were. Only years later would I see his remark as an accusation, telling me that he had picked up his cunning, ruthlessness, and selfishness at least in part from me. Only years later would it occur to me that Tom had probably only ever wanted to be a professor in order to force impressionable young minds to join his Death Eaters, and that I had been the one to give him this idea. Only years later would I recognize that perhaps the implication that I was the true father of Lord Voldemort was meant to be Tom's punishment to me for not being as concerned with him as I should have been.

"You do," Tom established, flashing his brilliant grin as he stood. "It was I, Professor, who did not deserve any of the attention that you have showered upon me all these years."

Before I could reply, he continued, consulting the grandfather clock behind him, "It's almost curfew. I ought to return to my dormitory. Thank you for the talk and the butterbeer. I will be certain to reflect on everything you said to me."

"Good night, Tom." For a second, I felt the compulsion to hug this lad to compensate for the fact that I could never be a good father to him, but, in the end, I stayed in my chair. As far as Heads of Houses went, I was affectionate, but that was too far even for me. After all, Tom Riddle was not my son, and he never would be. Awkwardly, I told him, "Keep in mind that like any father, I want you to become yourself, not to become me."

"Yes, Professor." Nodding dutifully, Tom left, closing the door behind him.

Oh, if only I had known as he shut the door in his wake that his idea of being himself would entail becoming the most evil wizard the world had ever seen. If I had, my advice would have been so different.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

I spent most of Tom's fifth year at Hogwarts in a state of disbelief. At the beginning of the term, I had been unable to accept that there was a monster roaming around the school, attacking Muggleborns. Then, as the year progressed, and several pupils―thankfully, none of my favorites―were Petrified, I had slowly absorbed the disquieting truth that there was indeed a beast creeping along the corridors, assailing unwary Muggleborns. The worst shock, though, had come when that girl―Myrtle or was it Marybeth?-had been killed in a bathroom.

In a year of such unpleasant surprises, I think you will agree that it was perfectly natural for a delicate man who consumed as many crystallized pineapples as I did to nearly have a stoke when I was summoned to the headmaster's office late at night on the thirteenth of June, especially since even those who aren't inclined to superstition know that the thirteenth is an inauspicious day.

As I hastened to Professor Dippet's study, I was sure that something dreadful had transpired. To be honest, I feared that another Muggleborn might well have perished, and the thought made the blood pound through my veins.

Professor Dippet had mentioned the giant boy Hagrid as well as Tom Riddle in his message. Good Lord, did that mean that Tom and the giant boy were dead?

It was entirely possible that they could be. After all, Tom might have been convinced that he was a half-blood, but, chances were, he was really nothing more than a Muggleborn orphan in an identity crisis. As for Hagrid, he was a half-giant, and any pureblood supremacist would sooner kill him than dine with him…

_Please, God_, I implored, finding myself in an oddly pious mood as I did every decade or so, _don't take my Tom yet. I know he's clever and charming, so, of course, you want him by your side to amuse you, but you've all your angels to keep you company. Let me keep Tom a little longer. He's special, and he means so much to me._

Realizing how selfish that prayer sounded, I added fervently, _Let the world keep Tom a while longer. The world needs a leader like he will become. If you permit him to live, you won't regret it for a second, Lord._

_Tom is not dead_, I snapped at myself once I finished my fervid beseeching of God. _He is a powerful wizard. Any monster that attacked him would even live to rue doing so. _

My inner turmoil was alleviated somewhat when Albus Dumbledore and I met up in the hallway leading to the headmaster's office. As Albus fell into step beside me, I demanded anxiously, "Do you know why we've been summoned?"

"Only that we've been summoned about a matter relating to the attacks on Muggleborns and that Riddle and Hagrid are involved somehow," answered Dumbledore, who must have received the same message I had.

"I hope that they haven't been killed," I whispered, wiping sweat from my brow.

"Oh, you needn't worry about Tom." There was a hard edge to my colleague's voice, as though he knew and resented that my concern was all for the bright, polite Tom Riddle and not for the bumbling idiot Hagrid. Albus never approved of my tendency to surround myself with my favorite students, although he in his way was as guilty of indulging certain pupils at the expense of others. "Tom is a survivor. He will go on living no matter how much it costs himself and others."

"Creativity and determination are virtues encouraged in Slytherin," I replied shortly, as Dumbledore and I entered Dippet's study.

When we stepped inside, I saw that the Ravenclaw Head of House―Professor Ferris who taught Arithmancy―and the Hufflpuff Head of House―Professor Randall who taught Charms―were already assembled behind Professor Dippet.

On the other side of the headmaster's desk, standing next to each other, were Tom and Hagrid. Looking at them, I noted inwardly that the two teenagers could not have appeared more different if they tried. Tom's back was straight; Hagrid's was hunched over as if he were vainly attempting to conceal the unnatural height he had inherited from his giant ancestors. Tom's hair was neat and his robes well-ordered, whereas Hagird's hair was tangled as though he had brushed it with brambles and his robes looked like they had never been washed. Tom emanated confidence, while Hagrid seemed to be wishing that he could melt into the floor.

Seeing that Tom was alive and unharmed, I felt the overwhelming surge of a father's desire to wrap my arms around him, so that I could have physical confirmation that he was intact, and give him a good-natured scolding for worrying me. The impulse died in me, however, as I took in the serious faces of the other staff members, and decided that the circumstances were too somber to indulge in such displays.

"Now that all of the Heads of House are present," Dippet remarked grimly, "we may start discussing the issue at hand, which, I am afraid, isn't a pleasant one."

"Few exchanges this year have been pleasant," pointed out Professor Ferris darkly. "Furthermore, few conversations that require people to leave their beds in the middle of the night are happy ones, although they are often necessary ones."

"This one is necessary." Dippet hesitated and then dropped a bombshell that wouldn't have been out of place in the war the Muggles were currently waging with each other. "This evening, Tom Riddle caught Hagrid in an empty dungeon with an acromantula―"

"What was Tom Riddle doing out of his common room after hours when I had already ordered him to return to his dormitory at once when he was heading back from his meeting with the headmaster?" Dumbledore wanted to know, riveting his piercing blue eyes on Tom.

"I heard an odd noise coming from one of the hallways as I made my way back to the common room, sir," responded Tom softly but distinctly, folding his hands behind his back as students were supposed to do when questioned. "Given that I am a prefect and given all the horrible events that have gone on this year, I figured it was best to investigate at once, especially since it was after hours and no students should have been out of bed at all. I didn't want to involve any professors right away, because I had no evidence that any severe infraction had taken place."

"Tom is a prefect," I contributed stiffly. "Albus, you know that prefects are expected to temper obedience with their own judgment. Hagrid, however, is not a prefect, nor was he meeting with the headmaster this evening. I think the question that is more to the point is what Hagrid was up to in a deserted dungeon after hours."

"I was lettin' Aragog out of his cage where he wouldn't hurt no one," grunted Hagrid, and I couldn't help but negatively compare his rough answer to Tom's smooth one. "Aragog is a big critter, and he gets cramped up in his cage."

"The acromantula gets cramped up in its cage," muttered Professor Randall, looking faint, "so it was released in a castle full of children."

"I don't believe that Hagrid meant the monster to kill anyone," Tom announced, his brown eyes earnest. "I just think that Hagrid doesn't always understand that what he thinks will make a great pet will actually turn out to be a lethal monster. I believe that he just couldn't control the acromantula, and then, well, a girl ended up dead, and several students were Petrified. It's a tragic accident, Professors, but hardly a malicious crime."

"You are kind to be so merciful, Tom, but releasing a monster in the school is a serious offense, especially if it results in the death of a student," sighed Dippet, and I couldn't help but agree with him, rather than Tom, in this instance. Hagrid, no doubt, hadn't intended to do anything evil, but motivations hardly mattered to the dead.

"Aragog isn't a monster," Hagird protested loudly, as though this were a perfectly rational contention to make, instead of one that proved how deranged he was.

"Aragog is an acromantula," snorted Professor Ferris. "Acromantulas by definition are beasts."

Hagrid opened his mouth to retort, but fell silent when Dumbledore spoke.

"Headmaster." Professor Dumbledore's knuckles were pale as he clenched Hagrid's shoulders reassuringly. Seeing the physical support Dumbledore was providing his student, I longed to rest my palms on Tom's shoulders, but, recalling that Tom was several inches taller than me, I decided that my holding onto him would make us both look ludicrous. Besides, Tom didn't need my support. Inarticulate Hagrid might have needed Dumbledore's, although why anyone would want to support the half-giant who had released a monster in the school was beyond me, but Tom didn't require mine. "We have no evidence linking the acromantula to any of the Petrified students or to Myrtle's death."

"With all due respect, Professor, I don't think that this castle can accommodate more than one monster," Tom cut in, and Randall, Ferris, and I all nodded in agreement.

"Obviously, you do not." Dumbledore eyed Tom as though he were the monster or the student accused of releasing the beast. "However, this school is large, and there are many places where a monster can hide, Tom. I would not be surprised if there was another beast making its home here, and I do not believe that the acromantula was responsible for the Petrified pupils or Myrtle's death."

Ignoring the fact that everyone in the office was gawking at him as though he had discovered another use for dragon blood, he looked down at Tom, and commented, "Mr. Riddle, I believe you are currently enrolled in Care of Magical Creatures."

"Yes, sir." Riddle sounded nonplussed.

"Tell me. Do acromantulas generally Petrify their victims?" Dumbledore arched his eyebrows, and I frowned when I realized where he was headed with this.

"I am not an expert on acromantula behavior, sir." Tom bit his lip in a fashion that suggested he had also spotted where Dumbledore was going. "However, from what I've read and from what Professor Kettleburn has taught me, no, acromantulas generally do not Petrify their victims. Still, acromantula venom is intended to incapacitate beings so the acromantuala can devour its prey, and some of the poison's effects are remarkably similar to Petrification. Our school nurse is nothing less than competent, of course, but mistake diagnoses do occur even with the best healers…"

"Very clever, Tom." Dumbledore's tone was cold. "What's your explanation for the fact that Myrtle wasn't devoured immediately by the acromantula? Acromantulas aren't known for their eagerness to delay meals."

"Species evolve, sir," Tom countered, his jaw tightening.

"Species evolve," repeated Dumbledore slowly, and I detected a hint of mockery that made me want to defend Tom, even though I was well aware that he possessed enough wit to protect himself, and that, in many ways, this was a private confrontation between Tom and Dumbledore. This was a challenge between two of the most brilliant and most potent wizards that ever existed, and, though there was tension between the pair of them ever since Tom first started at Hogwarts, I think that they both enjoyed their verbal sparring matches more than either of them would ever admit. In hindsight, I believe that both of them relished arguing with someone who had a mind as keen as theirs. To be honest, it must have been difficult for them both to be forever encircled by brains that were inferior to their own. "It's so convenient for us that our acromantula is at the spearhead of the evolutionary charge forward."

"Maybe I was wrong." Tom's eyes narrowed, and my spine stiffened. Tom was a respectful boy, but he wasn't a weak one, either. He didn't roll over and play dead when he believed he was insulted. More than that, he had a sharp mind that could manifest itself in a sharp tongue. Normally, his caustic comments were reserved for his less intelligent peers. On the rare occasions that they were deployed against members of the staff, they appeared with a gleaming grin and sparkling eyes that rendered it impossible to be miffed. Now, though, there was no trace of a grin on his suddenly taut features, and I knew that Tom was infuriated at Dumbledore's mockery. Tom was brilliant, and he couldn't tolerate being told he wasn't. "Perhaps I should have just allowed a fellow student to keep an acromantula as a pet."

"Tom," I chided before Dumbledore could speak. After all, Tom was in my House, and it was my obligation to discipline him. Although I could sympathize with his anger at Dumbledore, he couldn't be permitted to display such impudence before the headmaster and my fellow Heads of House, especially since Professor Ferris and Professor Randall already accused me of being lax with my charges because I never used a cane on members of my House. Of course, I doubted either of them would have laid so much as a finger on Tom if he had been Sorted into their House when they were as enamored of him as I was. "Don't be insolent. There is a fine line between confidence and insubordination. Make sure you stay on the right side of it, my boy."

Unfortunately, Tom ignored my reprimand. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice that there was anyone in the room except Dumbledore, whom he continued to glare at as he finished, "Maybe I misread the rulebook, and there is no line about having a dangerous pet like an acromantula being grounds alone for expulsion."

Watching Tom completely brush off my admonishment without even a glance in my direction, I realized with a start that I couldn't control the boy. Tom was smart and powerful, and, when it came down to it, any authority I wielded over him existed only because he permitted it to.

With that epiphany, came the abrupt fear of what might happen if Tom lost control and all the fury inside him burst out with all the random destructiveness of a flashflood, because, suddenly, I knew that Tom was the only one keeping himself in line―not me or any of his professors. The idea that my peers or I could hope to control Tom was nothing but a foolish delusion created by hubris.

Wishing passionately that I had sometimes been harsher on Tom so that he would have been forced to acknowledge me earlier, I clasped his shoulder and shook him, hissing, "Listen to me when I talk to you unless you want me to put you in detention for the first time in your life."

"I'm sorry, Professor Slughorn. I don't know what overcame me a moment ago." A contrite expression slid over Tom's face, and I dismissed my earlier fears as nonsense as he went on, "I beg your pardon, Professor Dumbledore. It's no excuse, but it has been a terribly long night for me, and exhaustion makes me unforgivably rude."

"Perhaps when we are tired we show our real selves without the masks that we wear all day that we no longer have the energy to maintain." Dumbledore's eyes pierced into Tom, and, since my hand was still clutching his shoulder, I could feel the boy cringe almost imperceptibly. I was wrong, I determined with a jolt. Tom Riddle feared Dumbledore, and he covered that fear with as much contempt as he dared to display while he was a student at school. One day, I thought that Tom might very well rival Dumbledore, but, until that day, he would have to swallow his pride when he dealt with the man, and if there is one thing Slytherins hate, it is swallowing our pride. "You are forgiven for your disrespect, Riddle, because I have learned not to expect better from teenagers even if they are prefects."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't disappoint you, at least, Professor." Tom ducked his head, so it was impossible to determine whether he was being serious or sarcastic.

"The boy might have crossed into impertinent territory, but his points are valid." Dippet coughed to draw attention to himself once more. "Having an acromantula is grounds alone for expulsion."

"Expelling Hagrid will not get rid of your problem, Armando," declared Dumbledore gravely. "The acromantula is not the monster from the Chamber of Secrets, and Hagrid is not the heir of Slytherin."

"I assume you have proof to back up such an assertion," Professor Ferris stated, raising an eyebrow at Dumbledore.

"Hagrid is not a Slytherin, nor is he pureblood," answered Dumbledore.

"Who says the heir of Slytherin has to be from Slytherin?" I demanded tersely. "Whatever you believe on the contrary, Albus, not all Slytherins are evil."

"I don't think all Slytherins are evil, Horace." Dumbledore gave me one of his annoying little bows, and I half-hoped that Tom would offer another barbed observation. "However, the fact remains that we are dealing with the heir of Slytherin, and I find it hard to believe that Slytherin would acknowledge anyone as heir if that individual wasn't in his House―"

"Slytherin's been dead for a millennium," I blustered. "He's not going to be acknowledging anybody!"

"Also, given the fact that the Chamber of Secrets has been hidden for a thousand years, whoever found it must be very clever indeed," added Dumbledore, gazing pointedly at Tom, who stepped forward.

"Professor Dippet, may I speak?" he asked, and I suspected that he was now making an extra effort to be deferential after his earlier insolence.

"You may." Professor Dippet nodded.

Tom took a deep breath to steel himself before establishing in a rush, "With all due respect to everyone assembled here, I don't believe that there is a Chamber of Secrets or an heir of Slytherin. Personally, I am inclined to believe that the legend of the Chamber of Secrets was just a myth students concocted over the years to scare each other late at night when they should have been asleep in their dormitories. Practically every scholarly book about the history of this school and the lives of its founders concur that there is no evidence that Slytherin had so much as a secret broom cupboard, and, if he did, I imagine that a brilliant wizard like him would put it to a better purpose than storing a monster. I think we would be unwise to dismiss the wisdom of generations of scholars in a panic over some attacks at our school, which can clearly be explained by the presence of an acromantula brought into the caste by a boy who didn't comprehend just how dangerous an acromantula can be to people."

Listening to him, I was impressed by his logic and cool head, and I couldn't help but be persuaded to see his point of view. Yes, the Chamber of Secrets did not exist. It was just another stupid myth designed to blacken the name of our House.

"What about the writing on the wall after the Halloween feast?" Dumbledore pressed.

"A prank by a student." I waved this off. "Anyone who read _Hogwarts a History _would be familiar enough with the story to think it a joke. Once the perpetrator saw how seriously it was taken, he or she would be afraid to come forward. Hagrid's acromantula attacking people and the writing on the wall aren't related. They just seemed to be in our panic."

"Perhaps," mumbled Professor Dippet, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the fact remains that, whether or not Hagrid is the heir of Slytherin if such a person even exists, he was found with an acromantula on the grounds, which is an expellable offense. In light of the attacks this year, I have no choice but to expel him and hope that the attacks will stop."

Holding up a hand to silence Dumbledore's protest, Dippet addressed Tom, "Mr. Riddle, for your bravery and cleverness in resolving the mystery of what was attacking our students, you will receive a trophy commending you for special services to the school. Fifty points will also be added to Slytherin."

"I didn't do any of this for a reward, Professor Dippet," Tom said, sounding like the rare humble Slytherin. "I did it because I wanted the school to be a safe place for children to learn and professors to teach."

"Admirable sentiments, but good deeds will be rewarded as long as I am headmaster." Dippet smiled briefly at Tom, before the grin faded as he continued sternly, "Now, I have to ask that you do the school another favor, Tom."

"I'd do anything for the school, sir," replied Tom swiftly.

"Good. I want you to keep quiet about everything that happened tonight." Professor Dippet's eyes locked on Tom's. "Your friends will ask you questions about what happened, and you will provide them no answers. You will hear gossip, but you will not contribute to it. You will do what is best for the school and keep what happened tonight a secret."

"Yes, sir." Tom nodded his head grimly. "I'll never tell a soul what transpired this evening."

"There's a lad." Professor Dippet waved his hand in dismissal. "It's off to bed with you now."

"Yes, Professor." As Tom obediently turned to go, I was filled with such pride for the clever, handsome, articulate, and powerful boy that if anyone had told me that he would end up becoming a Dark Wizard, I would never have believed it. Watching him shut the door behind him, I would never have believed that he had gotten away with murdering Myrtle. I never would have believed that someone as charming as him even had a killer buried inside him. I saw savagery in Hagrid and civilization in Tom, because that was what I was meant to see. I forgot that someone as clever as Tom was capable of outsmarting everyone in that room―even Dumbledore, who ultimately must have seen through Tom but who had in the end been unable to stop Tom's plan from turning out as Tom had devised it to―in a way that Hagrid would never be able to achieve. I don't know how many people I allowed to be sacrificed on the altar of Tom's brilliance because my vision was skewed by the glitter of his smile and the glistening of his prefect badge that day.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

"Tom!" I exclaimed merrily, as I glanced up from a tempting display of truffles in Honeydukes. "Aren't you supposed to be practicing Apparition with the other sixth-years?"

"The instructor told me to run along and have some fun in the village, since it was obvious that I didn't need any more practice," answered Tom, shrugging while he joined me beside the truffles display. "To be honest, I don't mind being dismissed early. I've been able to Apparte ever since the first lesson."

"Yes, while everybody else was stumbling into their hoops, and the luckier ones were Splinching themselves, you were disappearing and reappearing at will." I chuckled, delighted as ever by Tom's achievements.

"Good thing I was, too," commented Tom dryly. "Clearly, the instructor that the Ministry hired isn't competent. A majority of the class still hasn't Apparated, and most of those who have managed to Apparate cannot do so regularly. Apparently, teaching the three D's over and over isn't effective. It seems like if students don't grasp a lesson the first time, one actually has to go to the bother of devising a different lesson plan, instead of just repeating yourself ad nausem."

"Now, now, Tom." Somehow, even though my arms were filled with candy, I managed to waggle a finger at my current favorite pupil. "Don't be too harsh on those of us in the teaching profession. When you're a student, all you can think about is how hard your professors are on you, but when you're a teacher, all you can think about is how difficult your pupils are upon you."

"I have the utmost respect for excellent teachers like you who nobly devote their lives to educating younger generations," Tom replied, his gaze earnest, although he had to know by now that I instructed young witches and wizards out of a selfish desire to influence the best and brightest of tomorrow. Teaching had always been about what I could get out of my pupils, not about what I could offer them. Oh, I came to love some of my students, but it wasn't an unconditional love. It was a conditional love, and I never could quite forget that all the time and energy I poured into my favorites was an investment that I expected to profit from. I was a Slytherin. It wasn't in my nature to be noble. "For instructors that aren't so wonderful, well, it's harder to not judge them harshly, I'm afraid. Still, I do hope that I have never been any trouble to any of my professors."

"Well, you can hope all you want that you were no trouble, but I assure you that you were," I informed him. Seeing a flash of hurt flicker across Tom's features, I grinned at him. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You're a joy to teach. You're brilliant, respectful, rule-abiding, charming, and responsible. Every professor dreams of having a pupil like you, yet…"

Unable to describe just what it was that made it a challenge to teach someone as gifted as Tom Riddle, I trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

"Yet what, Professor?" pressed Tom when I broke off.

"It's not any failing of yours that makes you difficult to teach, my boy," I said, not wanting to wound him. "It's a failing of us professors. You see, you're so much cleverer than your peers that it's hard to assign you work that is appropriate for your level. It's a constant struggle to challenge your mind as it should be. Every teacher hopes to influence the next great mind of the future, but when you are presented with that next great mind, you realize that you don't have the intellectual capacity to teach that next great mind. I imagine Dumbledore's professors faced the same difficulties when they were trying to instruct him. They must have felt every time they looked at him and saw that he already understood the lesson before the teacher even had to speak that they could never be as good a teacher as someone with his brains deserved to have. They must have recognized that in a way they were failing the future by not honing such a brilliant mind as it should be sharpened."

"You've always taken time to answer my questions about advanced subjects after class, you've been happy to lend me any books I couldn't find at the library, and you've always signed any notes I needed to borrow books from the Restricted Section, sir." Tom shook his head. "You've been a wonderful instructor. Most of the teachers that I've encountered at Hogwarts have been incredible, but you're the best of the lot, if you ask me. I'm sorry I complained about the Apparition teacher. I had no right to do so. I've had some excellent teachers, and it's ungrateful for me to grumble about my education."

"You always have the right to complain about not being challenged enough academically." Now, it was my turn to shake my head.

"I have been challenged," insisted Tom quickly, but I think we both knew it was a lie. Tom had never been challenged at Hogwarts as he should have been.

Sometimes, I wished that Dumbledore had taken more time to instruct Tom personally, because only Dumbledore had a mind agile enough to keep up with Tom's. However, Dumbledore had always been more inclined to focus his energies on helping those who struggled to learn the basics of magic. He didn't direct his attention on the stellar students like Tom. While I admired his willingness to assist the pupils who would never have the wit or talent to go far in life, which demonstrated a selfness that I could never possess, I also wondered why it never seemed to occur to Dumbledore that the gifted required extra attention just as much as the less talented did. After all, as Dumbledore should have comprehended from his own experience, gifted students like Tom were as far away from the norm as the severely mentally handicapped were, and that should be taken into account when they were taught. It was just as possible to fail a gifted student by not challenging him enough as it was to fail a mentally handicapped one by not aiding him enough. Sure, I realized that I failed the mentally handicapped students every day by ignoring their struggles, but somehow the plight of the genius trapped in a society of idiots struck me more. Somehow it hurt me more to know that Hogwarts failed its greatest minds than its less brilliant ones. Somehow it cut more to know that every time a deep brain went untapped it was the future that paid the price for the school's failure to teach properly.

"Well, you certainly haven't been challenged enough in Apparition," I pointed out, making my tone as light as possible. "Tell me, if the three D's didn't help you, what did?"

"Oh, I think I just have a natural knack at disappearing and reappearing at will," responded Tom. "When I wanted to Disapparate, all I had to do was think about how I wanted to seep into the ground, and then my body just disappeared upon my command. Then, when I wanted to reappear in my hoop, I just had to picture myself doing that, and my body obeyed. I think that it was easy for me to learn to disappear, since I was always invisible at the orphanage. Once your body has learned how to slip through the cracks, it never forgets how to do it."

"You're not invisible at Hogwarts," I reassured him, thinking that perhaps I would back up this point by giving him a box of candies on the way back up to the castle.

"I know, Professor." Tom smiled cheekily at me. "I've got all sorts of glistening badges and trophies to prove that."

"And the glittering badges and trophies are all us Slytherins are interested in, of course." I laughed and allowed myself to forget until years later how Hogwarts failed one of its most brilliant pupils by allowing him to slip through the cracks.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7

It was a beautiful evening in early April, and I was on my way down to the school greenhouses to pick some Potions ingredients. However, the sight of the sun setting over the nearby mountains and staining the sky mauve, tangerine, and magenta, robbed of the scant little breath that typically filled my lungs. Watching the rays of the dying sun enact a final sparkling drama on the lake would be spectacular, I thought, so I took a detour around the lake's edge. Yes, it took longer to get to the greenhouses by going around the lake, but sometimes beauty was more important than efficiency.

I had been walking around the lake's edge for a few minutes when I spotted the shadow of a tall, dark male figure silhouetted over the water.

"Tom!" I called, as I came near enough to recognize the boy.

"Good evening, Professor," replied Tom, tossing a stone at the lake. As I came to stand beside him, I watched the stone skip across the water. When it stopped, I expected it to sink into the lake, but it stayed afloat. It was then that I noticed that a cluster of stones was suspended on top of the lake, and that Tom must have been working wandless magic.

"Why are you doing that?" I asked, gesturing at the stones floating on the water.

"To hone my concentration, sir, and just to see if I can." Tom shrugged languidly. Then, he turned his eyes from the stones, obviously ending the spell, and the stones sank into the lake. "Now I see that I can not only keep the stones afloat if I want to, but I can also make them sink upon my command."

"Surely you knew that you could perform such a simple spell already." I chuckled. "There's not a spell that's been devised that you can't do, my boy."

"Yes, Professor, before I performed such a basic bit of magic, I knew that I could do it, but now that I've done it, I have proof of that." Tom's eyes gleamed at me, and, in the peculiar light created by the sunset, his dark eyes seemed to contain glints of red. Trying not to think about how I had glimpsed more flickers of crimson in Tom's eyes ever since we had our nightmarish chat about Horcruxes last year which I would never be able to forget even if I wanted to, I told myself that the odd light was making me imagine things.

"You're such a skeptic," I remarked, clapping him lightly on the shoulder.

"It's an unfortunate side-effect of being raised in the place I was brought up." A veil fell across Tom's face as he established as much. "The matron, Ms. Cole, was always telling us to pray, and God would magically fix our problems. That sounds really nice and all, but God never answered the prayers of any of the children I lived with, so I figured out early on that it was smarter to solve my own problems however I could, and not rely on God to rescue me. I learned that God, who probably doesn't even exist, doesn't care about saving poor people. I realized that if you want to survive you have magically fix your problems. I recognized that if you want to live, you've got to keep yourself afloat, because if you depend on someone else, they'll always end up letting you sink. Once you sink, there won't be a heaven for you to go to, because heaven is just another stupid lie weak people create to console themselves since they can't accept the horrors of this world and they can't bear to understand that this is the only life any of us will ever know. Once you sink, there will be nothing but an abyss for you to drown in. If you don't want to drown, you have to find a way to stay afloat. It's that simple—and that complicated."

"Tom," I chided. "Such thoughts are very offensive to some people, you know. Take care who you share them with."

"Of course such thoughts are offensive to some people." Tom offered another languid shrug. "Most people want to believe in God, as I said, because they can't bear the idea that there is no higher power protecting them and that when they die that is the end of everything instead of being the start of something wonderful. The people who would be offended are the sort of ignorant beings I wouldn't share my opinions with. I only share my thoughts with clever people like yourself, Professor."

"I'm honored that you think me worthy to confide in." I smiled wryly, thinking it was like Tom to mingle an insult with a compliment. "Still, you might consider the fact that Professor Dippet is a devout Christian, and he is definitely not ignorant, and he would be most distressed to hear one of his favorite students talk as you just did."

"I'll be sure not to mention my theory to him, then," answered Tom, utterly unabashed. "Headboys aren't supposed to make the headmaster hate them, after all."

"Oh, Professor Dippet could never hate you, Tom," I assured him, squeezing his shoulder. "He would just see it as his moral obligation to save the soul of such a decent young man. Yes, I think if he heard you speak your mind about God, he would take it upon himself to convert you."

"I hope he wouldn't." Tom's eyes flashed. "If he did, I might have to say God spare me from anyone who would convert me, but I couldn't say that, since I don't believe in God."

"It must be very lonely not to believe in God." I shook my head. I was hardly religious in any sense of the word, but I couldn't imagine how it would feel to have rejected the idea of God entirely.

"It's not lonely to go through life without an invisible means of support." Now, it was Tom's turn to shake his head. "It's not even lonely to realize that everybody else is deluding themselves, and you alone know the truth. It's empowering. You recognize that you alone control what happens to you, and that if you have sunk, it is your fault, and, if you have floated, it was because of your own strength."

"Some people would attribute such strength to God," I reminded him gently.

"Such people just couldn't bear their own strength," snorted Tom. "Such people would be every bit as deluded as those who sank." Before I could respond, he bent over and scooped up a shell. Running a hand along its ridges, he muttered, "This was abandoned by a freshwater hermit crab. Hermit crabs don't have homes of their own, you know. They just keep outgrowing them. It reminds me of how my mother died giving birth to me, so I was stuck in the orphanage until Dumbledore explained to me that I was a wizard and could attend Hogwarts. Did you ever stop to think that every student at Hogwarts was a child whose parents decided that they didn't need to have their baby around? Did you ever stop to think how maybe what drives all of us is our first abandonment? Did you ever stop to think about how much we have to prove because of that abandonment?"

Before I could stutter out a reply to any of these peculiar and difficult questions that I didn't truly want to answer, Tom continued, "I suppose even when I was little I was like the hermit crab. I was too big for the orphanage, so I was brought here. For years now, it seems like I've been too big for the school. It makes me wonder if I'll be too big for the world, too."

"That's why I told you it's a waste of your talents to be a clerk in a store," I said, shaking my head over Tom's misguided career decision.

"It's a temporary position." As he always did when I took him to task for his silly career decision, Tom dismissed my concern.

"You should go into the Ministry," I went on, warming to my theme. "You'd make head of department in no time. Then, you'd be Junior Undersecretary or Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, and, after that, I don't doubt that you'd become the Minister. Oh, yes, my boy, the Ministry would offer the kind of advancement that you seek."

"And once I am Minister, what would I do, Professor?" demanded Tom.

"I don't know," I admitted after a moment's pause. More jovially, I quipped, "I'm sure someone as clever as you could come up with something, though."

"You and I both don't know what I would do with myself once I had reached the exalted rank of Minister of Magic, sir." Tom's voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. "What's the sense of becoming Minister when I don't have a clue where I would go after that? What's the point of joining the Ministry when I'll outgrow it as soon as I become Minister?"

"I thought you liked doing things just because you enjoyed having proof that you could achieve them," I pointed out, remembering his explanation for keeping the stones afloat.

"I do, but I also need a challenge." There was a trace of hysteria in Tom's manner now. "Sometimes it hurts to not fit into a shell anymore."

"You're brilliant, Tom." I shook my head, not knowing how to respond to his anguish. "That's a blessing, not a curse."

"Yes." Tom was starting to regain his composure now. "Yes. It's better to be brilliant than to be a fool, although the only reason anyone is regarded as brilliant is because there are an awful lot of fools."

"Go up to the castle, thinker of deep thoughts," I ordered, deciding to end this awkward conversation now before I drowned in waters that were way over my head. "Students aren't supposed to be on the grounds after dark. You should know that if you are so brilliant."

"I'm clever enough to wait and see if you remember the rules." Tom smirked at me for a second, and then he turned to head back up to the school. "Good night, Professor. I'll see you in Potions tomorrow."

Watching him return to the school, I couldn't help but think how painful it must be to believe, as he did, that you were truly alone in the world. That sense of cosmic loneliness must have been what made it so easy for Tom to regard the universe as an infinitely cold and dark place. It must have made it simple for him to believe that in order to keep himself afloat, it was acceptable to commit acts of unfathomable evil. It must have made it easy for him to hate and to feel that when the world slapped him across the face it was preferable to strike back than to turn the other cheek. In the lonely world he created for himself, it must have been such a comfort for Tom to think that even though he was alone like everyone else, he was also great…


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

"I've come to say goodbye, Professor," announced Tom Riddle with rather less poise than was typical with him, as he entered my office through the door that I was keeping open, so that any students who wished to bid me farewell wouldn't be shy about entering.

"Oh, Tom." For a second, I could do no more than stare at his tall, handsome frame. As I gazed at him, my eyes played a vicious prank upon me and replaced this brilliant young man who was so eager to enter the adult world to show it just how much he had to offer with the eleven-year-old boy I had first met, who had been so hungry for knowledge, but who had also been so timid in the new magical world he had found himself in. Now, there wasn't a shy or hesitant bone in his body. If none of Tom's professors had challenged him as he should have been, at least we had given him confidence, I thought. Shaking my head, I indulged myself in a little nostalgia by adding, "It feels like only yesterday that you were eleven-years-old and first sitting down in my Potions class."

"The best days are the first to flee," Tom answered softly, running his fingers along the back of his favorite chair in my office. From the distant, oddly vulnerable, cast to his eyes, I could tell that he was remembering all the conversations we had shared in here over the years. "I'm going to miss this place. It's the only home I've ever really known."

"Oh, Tom," I repeated, wishing that the fact that Tom was an orphan wouldn't always cut into me without warning like an unexpected knife attack from a foe, and praying that one day the wounds that the orphanage had left on Tom would be healed by time eventually. After all, if time always insisted on breaking people's hearts by making everyone eventually lose everything they love, the very least time could do was numb some of the pain it created. "The wonderful thing about a home is that you never truly leave it."

"You don't, sir?" His forehead furrowing, Tom cocked his head at me, as his gaze mingled confusion with hope.

"No, you always carry your home about with you wherever you go," I assured him, tapping his heart with my finger and pretending that I didn't have to reach up to do this. "A home makes you who you are, and so it is always with you. That's part of what makes it a home. "

"Hogwarts made me who I am today," Tom agreed, nodding. "You made me everything I am today, Professor."

"Nonsense, my boy." Beaming, I waved this off, not realizing that in a few years time I would come to regret hearing Tom Riddle utter these words. Even while I brushed off Tom's comment, I knew that there was some truth behind it. Tom was clever and cut out for greatness, yes, which meant that he would have excelled even if he had never met me, but I was also the teacher that he was closest to. While he was well-liked by all of his professors except Dumbledore, Tom didn't get the same kind of attention from his other teachers as he did from me. Other professors are shier about indulging their favorites than I am. I have never bothered to lie about which students I have time for and which I don't deem worth the effort. I am guilty of favoritism, yes, but at least I make no effort to conceal it.

"You were always ready to give me advice," Tom said, a smile touching his lips. "More importantly, you were always willing to sign notes allowing me access to the Restricted Section of the library without posing too many prying questions."

"I know that a mind such as yours forever needs to be challenged if it is to stay sharp," I replied.

"Everyone's mind should be challenged if it is to stay sharp," answered Tom dryly. "The reason so many people act like fools is that they never bother to challenge their minds. Brains are muscles, and muscles that aren't exercised are weak."

"It's a good thing that I do the crossword in the _Daily Prophet_ on a regular basis, isn't it?" I chuckled, and, then eyed him shrewdly. "You know, Tom, you never did tell me what you wanted to do in the Restricted Section."

"Research, of course, sir." Tom's voice was amiable, but his eyes flashed, suggesting that he didn't appreciate my probing.

"Obviously. I am not in my dotage yet, so there's no need to treat me as though I am." My curiosity further piqued by his secretiveness, I pressed, "I was asking what in particular you were researching."

"Do I need to confine my research to a specific subject?" Tom arched an eyebrow. "With all due respect, sir, I never wished to narrow my studies to a particular field. I always felt that there was too much useful knowledge out there to risk missing any of it by limiting my interest to one paltry area."

"Come, come," I chided, wagging a jovial finger at him. "You are a Slytherin, not a Ravenclaw. You don't acquire stores of knowledge merely to possess the information. No, when you gather data, you do so because you believe that it will be useful in some manner."

"All knowledge is useful," countered Tom. "I love knowing things, especially things that nobody else does."

"Well, I suppose it makes you happy that you know more than half the staff." I chucked, and then warned genially, "You should be careful. A little knowledge can be dangerous."

"Only to those who don't have it, not to those who do. Calling knowledge dangerous is just a way of tricking people into not doing any research for themselves," answered Tom, and his eyes flashed scarlet again. For a second, my stomach knotted, and then I assured myself that it had only been an optical illusion. How could I possibly be foolish enough to mistake the young man's honest thirst for knowledge with something sinister? I really must be in my dotage, after all. "Knowledge is power, and I want all the knowledge that I can get. I want to push the boundaries of magic farther than anyone else has. I want to discover things nobody else has. I want to achieve the impossible, so everybody realizes that the impossible is really only the difficult."

"You'll be a great wizard, Tom," I reassured him. "I've said it ever since you've arrived here, and I've never been wrong about a pupil yet. You'll go far, and everyone will know your name."

Tom grinned at the picture I painted with my words, and, for a moment, we were silent. Then, I couldn't resist bringing up a dead horse for another flogging. "My boy, are you quite sure you wouldn't prefer working in the Ministry with your charm and your cleverness?"

"I'm quite sure I wouldn't, as I have explained to you at least a half a dozen times in the past month alone, Professor." Tom's smile seemed rather tight and forced. "At the Ministry, there is so much bureaucracy that I'd never be able to get anything done. No, I'd much rather be a teacher at Hogwarts. Hogwarts is where I should be, and I'm only leaving now because no one will let me stay on as a professor right now, but I'll be back to teach one day. Hogwarts is loads better than the Ministry. At Hogwarts, you can shape the minds of the future generation. The present generation is always set in its way, but the children are always willing to fit the molds that you make for them, and they are eager to learn whatever you will teach. If you catch a child young, you have him for life, and wizards live very long lives. The future generation is where the true power lies, but I don't have to explain all that to you, sir. You do it- you influence tomorrow's leaders, and you know that true power isn't found in the limelight, but rather in the shadows."

"Tom!" I gasped, feeling appalled at hearing this description of my teaching methods. "Really, I do no such thing. I'm no saint, but I'm not a conniving monster, either."

"Of course you aren't; I shouldn't have said what I did when it isn't true." No doubt seeing my pale face and recognizing just how discomfited I was, Tom offered me his most disarming smile. "It really isn't fair that after all these years of you seeing the best in me, I reward you by seeing the worst in you, is it?"

"It's all right," I replied hastily, but, bewildered by his last remark, I couldn't refrain from adding, "I really don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you, Tom."

"Of course you haven't." Tom's chin lifted, and pride shone in his eyes. "I'm unique in all of human history."

"Yes, you are." I clapped him on the shoulder. "Keep in touch with me, my boy. I have no doubt that you are headed toward a great destiny, and I hope to be a part of that."

"I will write to you, sir," Tom promised me, and, as he left my office for the last time as a student, I had no idea that would be the final time that I ever laid eyes on Tom Riddle. I had no way of knowing that the red gleams I had seen in his eyes were real, and that the scarlet would consume his eyes entirely within a few short years. I could never have guessed that he would change his name to Lord Voldemort and become infamous under that title. I could not have foreseen that in a few years, as he destroyed so much of what was good in the Wizarding world, I would be wishing that I had been wrong about him, and that he would be the only favorite student of mine who didn't have the power to attain his definition of greatness. At the time, I could not have hoped to understand that the desire for knowledge that had so charmed me was rotten at its core. As Tom departed my study, I could never have thought that the pupil that I perhaps loved above all others would turn out to be the one I understood least.


	10. Chapter 10

Epilogue

Well, there you have it. I have kept no secrets from you about Tom. Finally, I have revealed everything, and maybe that will bring me some semblance of peace after all the years of grief. By sharing my memories, I haven't arrived at any great truth, but I never expected to. I have never been a philosopher—I'm not even a very good teacher—so I will leave finding the truth to you. You may pass judgment upon Tom Riddle if you like, but I will not. History may never be able to forgive him for the heinous acts that he committed, but I can.

No matter how much he tore apart his own soul and became a mockery of everything he should have been, I still love him. As he said all those years ago when he left my office for the last time, I would always see the best in him. Despite all the crimes he was guilty of, when I remember Tom Riddle, I will remember his quick smile or the manner in which his eyes lit up when a new idea crackled through his head like lightning bursting across a summer sky. I do not claim that the good overshadowed the bad in Tom, because I comprehend better than everyone else that, in the end, it was the bad that devoured the good.

However, I also know that history will lie about Tom. History will act like he was evil from the start, so nobody will ever have to think about the thin line that separates knowledge from insanity and ambition from ruthlessness. History will make it sound as though Tom was a monster, not a human, so that nobody will have to consider the idea that anyone could become a Lord Voldemort if given half the brains and half the power that Tom Riddle was.

At least history will remember Tom, though, meaning that his power has immortalized him, as he always hoped that his power would do. I can only pray that the lies history tells about Tom won't result in another Lord Voldemort. I can only hope that now that you know that Tom Riddle was once a human, you can find the truth and correct the lies that history will tell.


End file.
